Laments for a broken crown
by petrichorblue
Summary: Washed ashore with no memory of her past, many of the villagers wonder if the young woman is one of the survivors from the Arendellian war. The only one who possibly knows her is the local woodcutter but he too is not all he appears to be. Eventual Hans/Elsa, canon compliant.
1. Prologue

**A/N**: This story will be told in short, interconnected chapters. Reviews and prompts are most welcome.

**Ship(s)**: None. Eventual helsa.

**Words**: 410

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><p><em>Sing me a song of a lass that is gone,<em>  
><em>Say, could that lass be I?<em>

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><p><strong>All that was home<strong>

First came the feeling: something was hitting at her kidneys continuously, her head hurt with a horrible intensity and she was sure she was bleeding; it was wet and the water was rocking her in its embrace; the coldness was biting her skin. Generally, not a very pleasant way to awake but she had had worse. Maybe.

Then came the sound: a noisy river, the rudely cheerful singing of the birds.

Then came the odor: of rain and humidity, rotten leaves and wet grass.

She opened her eyes. The autumn sun was already turning into a winter one - high and cool it shone above the rotting red leaves that had fallen on the beaten tracks. The river was full and lively - a few ducks decided on trying their luck in the North, were swimming and looking enviously above towards the swooping pigeon flights.

She - a girl? a woman? an old maid? - lost track of the time that passed as she stared into the cold nothingness above of her, blue eyes unseeing the vapor coming from her mouth and rising towards the uncaring sky in curls of smoke. Then:

A horrible, lung-wrenching gasp. "Help," she choked, but her voice came strangled and small. "Help!" she managed again. No one came for a long while and she lay there, trying unsuccessfully to rise up while being held back by the intolerable heaviness of her head. "Help," she croaked again, pitifully.

But this time she was finally helped. For a chaotic, confusing moment she felt someone's arms encircling her from behind and drawing her out of the riverside.

"Shh, it's alright, you're alright," the lad said smoothly as he briefly set her on the muddy earth. "I've got you, I-" But young man, who had been tucking away dirty bangs behind her ear, paused. "Majesty?" he breathed.

Their eyes met. She almost yelled as she recognized him, shouted... But all words failed her, as her body shut down, finally knowing that she would be saved never-the-less.

And then there was nothing. Her mind was pleasantly empty of memories - fresh and old - scarring at her very soul like a wound that was too frequently opened. All the images and sounds were quickly sucked in by a vacuum and came swallowed by the waves already behind her. Until truly nothing remained.

When she awoke for the second time that day, her mind was like a white canvas washed clean.


	2. Chapter One

**A/N**: Remember the part where I told you this will be with short, interconnected chapters? Yeah, I do too.

**Ship(s)**: None. Eventual helsa.

**Words**: 2890

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><p><em>Billow and breeze,<em>_islands and seas__, __mountains of rain and sun  
>All that was good,<em>_all that was fair__ - __all that was me is gone._

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><p><strong>Unusual Occurrences<strong>

Something strange happened to Johannes Bijl a night before he saved a young woman from the river.

It was a full moon, a cold moon as he headed from his hut to the smith's house - the blade of his axe had dulled and he hadn't a whetstone, he'd lost it somewhere. Johannes hurried through the night, taking big strides - the sky was a glowing, foggy brown, the way it was only when winter was coming. Shivering, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them with his warm breath, the young man looked around the paved streets. The lampposts thankfully hadn't been extinguished yet and served him as guides.

Finally he found his way to the smith's house (it was quarter of an hour away from his own) and knocked four times on the wooden door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" the smith proclaimed from behind. In a heartbeat he opened the door, an old lamp throwing light on his face and Johannes'. "Hans," the smith said gruffly. The smith was a balding, big man but his short-trimmed beard was worth a man's envy and his clever eyes and sharp tongue made most of the young lads instantly admire him. His head was covered with a nightcap - to keep him from catching cold during the night's coldest hours when the fire died down. "What's the matter?"

The woodcutter smiled awkwardly. "I'm sorry to bother you at this late an hour, Andreas... I was wondering if you could lend me your whetstone as I seem to have lost mine. I'll be going into the woods early next morning."

Andreas looked at him critically - the older man was never much of an admirer of Johannes Bijl's curvy and long-speeched way of talking.

"Come inside," the smith finally said. "It's ruddy cold outside. Enough to turn your balls into icicles." The woodcutter grimaced at the imagery and stepped inside. "What sort of a woodcutter loses his whetstone?" Andreas muttered under his breath as he began searching for the item on the shelves. Hans said nothing and his eyes followed the older man's movements. "There!" Andreas declared after a moment and handed Hans the whetstone. "You know how to use it, yes?" he teased good-naturedly. Hans laughed and nodded. "Careful not to chop your own head when you sharpen that axe. Don't wanna be like the Tin Man, yeah?"

Just as the woodcutter was about to reply, Andreas' wife came inside the room. "Hans? How are you doing?" she asked with a thick accent and a smile.

"Good, good." Andreas' wife, Johanna, was about forty years old. She had long, dark curls and an oval, dark face that was still relatively smooth for her age. Hans gathered that she was of gypsy origins. "I'm sorry I woke you up," he murmured.

"Nonsense." She waved her hand dismissively - the way she moved always struck Hans as graceful and royal. She stood there for a moment, regarding him with an odd expression. As soon as she regained her composure, the gypsy walked towards the woodcutter and took his hand. She motioned towards Andreas to give her the lamp and as soon as it was within her reach, she grabbed it harshly and neared it towards the woodcutter's palm. "I had a vision about you," she told him calmly while she inspected the lines of his callous hand. "A bleeding white swan flies towards you, carrying a bulb of saffron in its beak, it falls on the waterside of the river and the saffron starts growing there. It is unusual for saffron cannot grow in the wild, but this one survives and thrives. As you go there - oh, Hans - your life is full of twists and turns and soon, all you know is about to collapse again. Your hand may be full of cuts that try to hide the language of fate on your skin, but I see it all."

"What do you see?" Hans breathed, looking at her in awe. Suddenly the passion written on her features eased and she looked at him with a calm face once more.

"If I told you, Hans, I'd deprive you of all the choices and options you will have. I'd steal away your future. You'll see it better than me, when the time comes."

"I should go," the young man said suddenly. "Good night to you both," he whispered and nodded curtly at them.

"Goodnight," Andreas murmured. As Hans closed the door, he heard the smith whisper something to his wife. He didn't bother to listen in what it was.

The young man walked the way back to his hut in a daze, not even noticing the cold. It was eight o'clock in the night and while in the royal courts there were balls at the time, the common people were already sleeping - to awaken for an hour around midnight to pray, talk, make love or reflect on the work that awaited them in the morning.

A strong wind had started blowing out the lampposts one by one as he went inside his home.

It was warm inside - Hans still wasn't used to the cold temperatures of the village houses, even after all these years. He imagined his old friend, Jørn, would have laughed at him and called him a pompous ponce. But Jørn was dead and rotting so it didn't matter, Hans thought as he threw another log in the fire.

As he prepared to go to sleep, Hans pondered once more on Johanna's words. Strange woman - the woodcutter didn't _like_ strangeness. But she had such a bohemian air about her that it was difficult to dislike her.

Still, he thought, his fate was his own. Those nonsensical words did not mean anything to him. Swans and saffron and blood...

His dreams begged to differ.

"_Hans_..." it came like an emerging from the water melodic voice. "_Prince Johannes of the House Westerguard!_"

"Who's calling?" he yelled to the wind. There was a winter storm around him and the snowflakes were surrounding him as if drawn to him by some unnatural way. "I've forsaken those ways!"

"_You've forsaken all of your past_," the small but echoing voice said and Hans realized with a start that the _winter itself _was talking to him. "_But your past has not forsaken you_."

"Hans!" another voice called. It was the white swan, carrying a beautiful saffron flower in the fold between its bend legs.

"_HANS_!" dozens of voices yelled in his ear. "_You have to help her_!"

The woodcutter awoke with a start and blamed the dream on his vivid imagination and the smith's wife's dramatic but false words.

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><p>He washed his face with the cold water and blinked towards the waterside, thinking his vision had failed him for a second. But no, it was exactly as he had thought - a muddy yellow cloak some twenty meters on his left, moving along with the waves of the river. From distance it seemed like an expensive thing, perhaps a present to a merchant's daughter.<p>

He stood up and strode towards the curious article.

It didn't take him long before he realized that someone was wearing that cloak, as the tall weed around the riverside had obstructed the whole view at first.

"Help!" a feminine, raspy voice said.

_My __**God**__, it's a woman._

But maybe it was a lost nymph or a siren.

The creature was naked with the exception of her cloak, dirty from the mud of the river, and covered in wet and rotting leaves. She was wriggling but her head was unmoving, and she was staring towards the sky with wide eyes (he couldn't see the rest of her face because her hair was in the way). She seemed to be in some kind of shock. "Help!"

Without thinking, he ran the rest of the way towards her, pulled her out and drew her on dry land (or at least as dry as possible in this wet weather). "Shh, it's alright, you're alright," he lied as he cradled her in his arm and checked her pulse. It was too fast. Noticing blood on her head, he tried to tuck her dirty blonde hair behind her ears.

He honestly was not prepared to realize it was Queen Elsa of Arendelle he was helping. "Majesty?" he breathed, his air as if sucked away. Their eyes met and she seemed to become even more excited and worried but perhaps the emotion was too much because before she said anything, she passed out.

For a second he wondered if he should just leave her to die. If he helped her, after all, she'd tell the whole village of his past and of his true lineage.

Then that second passed and he berated himself - Jørn would never have done such a thing. Jørn had always been a far better man than himself and now it was Hans' turn to prove there was some good in him.

Thinking that yesterday had unknowingly been the last day of life as he knew it, the woodcutter picked up the queen and carried her through the woods with a heavy heart and fast pace. He passed through the logs he had managed to chop and paid them no mind.

Once inside the village he heard the gasps of the village folk, and was flooded by their curious faces. "I found her on the riverside," he explained repeatedly. "Yes, she's wounded. I'm going to Johanna now. She'll be able to heal her, I'm sure. No. She's not dead."

Not yet anyway.

Midway towards the smith's home, Johanna herself appeared and told him: "Let's go to your house. We haven't a free bed in ours."

The woodcutter nodded briefly and headed towards his own hut. The gypsy followed him.

He opened the door with a good kick - there was no time to bother with small things - and soon he was gently laying the young woman on his own bed. He stepped aside to let Johanna do her work. "Go to my house and bring me my leather bag - it's full of herbs and other medical items. _Now_," she commanded.

Hans nodded again and hurried away. His mind was in chaos.

"What's happened?" he muttered to himself.

As he neared the smith's house, Andreas, who had come outside of his smithy to see what the commotion was all about, was already opening the door.

"Calm down, boy," he said as Hans began searching for the leather bag. "You obviously are not good under stress, eh?"

Hans, whose heart was beating wildly in his chest, turned towards the smith. "I'm _exceptionally_ good under stress," he hissed vehemently. "Now stop with your stupid, foolish jests and _leave me_." He found the bag and quickly departed.

As soon as he gave the bag to Johanna, she told him to leave the house so she could work in peace.

For the first hour, Hans was pacing in front of the hut, trying not to be overly aggressive as he explained numerous times the finding of the girl in the river. As afternoon came, he could take it no longer: he went to the local inn where they served the best beer and got himself a pint.

"Heard you found a real beauty in the river," Bart, the innkeeper, said as he sat next to him. Bart was around Hans' age: dark-skinned, dark-eyed and usually had a very optimistic and cheerful look. He had recently taken over his father, who had decided it was about time his lazy son did something to help the family business.

Hans raised a hand as he drained his glass and then wiped away his mouth. "More like a lot of trouble," he said finally, feeling lightheaded.

"Only you'd say that!" Bart said and barked a laughter. "So many lasses are willing to lift their skirts for you, but no - you're as moved by them as a rock. You sure you're not queer?"

Hans smiled sardonically. "How would you know if I've never taken advantage of my charms? I might just be extremely good at keeping secrets."

"Nah, you're far too gullible to be a secretive person," Bart dismissed and went to get himself a drink of his own.

_If that's what you want to think..._

"You want some?" the young innkeeper asked as he sat down.

"No," Hans curtly replied. "One is enough," he said as he stood up. "I'm going back."

Strangely, the alcohol - even if not much - helped him lighten up a bit. He was already looking philosophically at the situation and thinking about heading south, perhaps to some little, lovely town in the French Riviera, when Johanna came outside.

"She'll probably sleep a few days. If anything happens, you'll call me at once." Hans swallowed hard and nodded again. "I'm going to rest then. Goodbye." Hans did not reply.

He sat on the wooden stool in front of his house and stared pensively at the ground but not a minute had passed before he suddenly stood up and opened his damaged door. It really had not been his smartest move and he'd have to repair it, as it was now a bit askew.

He went to his bed, to the unconscious queen that lay beneath his covers and sat on the corner. "Why did you have to come into my life and rattle the peace I had managed to create for myself?" He smiled bitterly as he took one of her long curls and played with it. The woman's head was bandaged. "I suppose I deserve it though, don't I?"

He could not bear to stay in the same room as her, as she brought him too many conflicting and violent emotions; at the same time he_had to_, as he was obliged to watch over her lest she stopped breathing.

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><p>On the morning of the second day, he finally got himself to repair the front door. Too much wind was passing through the cracks at night and it was already uncomfortable enough with having to sleep on the floor.<p>

Johanna came again.

"How's the girl?" she asked with a merry smile.

"The same," Hans replied shortly. He stood up and regarded the newly repaired door with a critical eye.

"She should be waking up soon."

"Aye." He paused for a second. "She was probably assaulted a few miles from where I found her. The attacker thought her a done deal as he threw her into the fast current of the river. I figured out all that already but I was wondering if... Was she..." he struggled. "Was she raped?"

"No," the older woman shook her head. "There aren't any signs of this kind of attack. Perhaps the attacker was a woman. Or a professional mercenary." She sat on the corner of the bed and examined the lass. "You think she was rich?"

"Maybe," he admitted. "I'd think her a merchant's daughter."

"Then why is no family looking for her?"

"Maybe she is an orphan then."

And perhaps whatever had happened during the war in Arendelle, whoever assaulted the queen, had taken away her sister's life too.

"The folk whisper," Johanna suddenly said. "They say she's probably from Arendelle. Maybe she tried to run away after the occupation. The Tromsoians aren't known to be very kind people. Their king is ruthless and cold. I've heard he tried to take the Arendellian queen's hand by force but she struck him with her sorcery. No one knows what kind of powers she wields, but there are legends - some say it's the ice, others say she controls thunder or the whole ocean...

"But then, king Kaldr found another witch and she sealed away the queen's powers. Only then did he conquer the queendom of Arendelle. I heard that he himself had killed the queen after that."

"I never knew any of this," Hans whispered, wondering at his ignorance. He didn't remember anyone talking of the affairs of the North. The villages in the Netherlands usually cared only of their own, tedious ones.

"That's because you never ask. And our village isn't very big, news travel slow towards it. I only know because I've been curious about the fate of a fellow witch as myself."

If Johanna was so sure of her sorcery, Hans wanted to ask, how come she didn't see that this very witch was right under her nose?

Perhaps it was too unbelievable. A queen of a conquered kingdom, assaulted and carried by the river - surviving by sheer luck - and arriving at a small village in the Netherlands?

But as he struggled to keep himself from rolling his eyes, they found the bright blue ones of the young woman's.

"Lass," Johanna was already saying."What's your name?"

Hans took a deep breath-

"I- I don't know," the young woman replied after a moment of struggle, her voice hoarse.

Johanna looked at the woman's bandaged head. "I had thought this a possibility. But you should calm down - it might be only for a short time. All will be alright."

Hans, who only now remembered to breathe out, wondered if the smith's wife knew that because a vision had told her, or because she simply was trying to soothe a crying girl.

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><p><strong>AN:** I'm writing this story to get rid of a terrible case of writer's block, so forgive me if you find the quality of the writing here poor. English isn't my first language too, but I swear it was better before - I've just become a bit rusty. So, in a way, this story is all kinds of exercise for me. If anyone's willing to beta it, just PM me.

_Some notes on this chapter:_

Bijl is a Dutch surname and it means woodcutter. Think of it as the English surnames Smith, Baker and so on.

Johanna's not exactly fluent on purpose, gypsy people have their own language. I wikipedia'd it.

In the past, most people had a sleep pattern that is vastly different than the one most of us are used to, as I've stated in this story. Google it if you want to: 'segmented sleep'.

I don't think there will be any flashback chapters because everybody hates them, myself included. But what happened will, of course, be addressed.

Next chapter will be of Elsa's POV and will **not** overlap with the things occuring in this one.


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